Am I Dreaming?
by SmartRose15
Summary: What would you do if you got mysterious letters from a man who calls himself "S" and seemingly knows everything about you and what you're doing? Definitely not trust him, right? . . . But what if you've got no choice? (No ships.) (Rated T for swearing.)
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

 **A/N: I am completely new to this website. Still learning how to use; I don't even know if this is formatted correctly!**

 _"Look around. Tell me what you see."  
_

"I see nothing, sir."

 _"Exactly. Where are they? What are they doing?"_

"I would assume nothing."

 _"Correct again. Their enemies are still planning while they are falling farther and farther behind."_

"May I ask what the point of this is, sir? Does this fact . . . _upset_ you?"

 _"If they fail, I die."_

"If they win, you die."

 _"Then let's ensure their will to fight; I'm selfish and still want to live no matter the cost of lives."_

"How are we supposed to do that, sir? With all due respect, we don't even know where they are."

 _"When you find them_ — _"_

"But—"

 _"When you find them, you must tell them the truth. You must make their origins known. Slowly but carefully."_

"They're gone, sir. I don't know where they've gone, but they're not here."

 _"But I know. I know where they are. In a world similar to ours yet our destinies took drastically different turns. They're in the land of machines."_

"Machines, sir?"

 _"Electricity and advanced sciences. A world that could've been our future."_

"Could've? What changed?"

 _"The titans."_


	2. Your Friend, S

Dear Eren Jaeger,

Hello. This will be a long process, but I'm sure you'll manage, Eren. You contain great tenacity once you set your mind to something, I hear. I don't doubt it; my sources are quite reliable.

Do you feel like you're dreaming?

Time to wake up.

Your Friend,

S

PS

If you try writing back, I'm sure you'll find that your mail will mysteriously vanish into thin air.

* * *

Dear Eren Jaeger,

Hello. I hope I'm not being a nuisance to you, but I simply have to keep in contact. I understand you may be confused, but you need to trust me. I'm on your side, you see. I want the best for you.

You can't keep living in this fake reality forever. You have to wake up at some point.

Remember, it's time to wake up.

Wasn't there something you have to do?

Your Friend,

S

* * *

Dear Eren Jaeger,

Hello. I'm sure you've become acquainted with my letters at this point, but I have to keep writing you in the hopes that perhaps your mind might simply wake up from this dream.

Your enemies are advancing. There isn't much time left. If you don't wake up soon we'll have to take drastic measures.

Trust me, you don't want us to take drastic measures.

Your Friend,

S

* * *

Dear Eren Jaeger,

Hello. I can tell you're ignoring my letters.

I wouldn't do that if I were you.

I apologize if this process is a bit painful. I'm sure your physical body is taking a blow right now, but fear not for it will all be over soon. I promise. And I always keep my promises.

Have you decided to wake up yet?

Your Friend,

S

* * *

Dear Eren Jaeger,

Hello. I'm sure you've realized by now that yes, these letters can't be viewed by anyone else no matter how much you want them to. Poor boy, you're only fifteen. Just a kid. Still learning about the world.

Excuse me, I don't know where that rambling came from.

You do realize I'm not going to stop writing you, correct? What has it been? I believe this is the fifth week I'm writing to you. Every Friday at 5:30 on the dot.

When are you going to wake up, Eren? At this rate, I'll have to introduce the other players into our little game. You might appreciate that but I certainly won't; that'll set us back when we don't have any time to spare in the first place.

I know you must be thinking, 'What do they mean, "no time to spare"'? The answer is this: I can't tell you yet.

Your Friend,

S

* * *

Dear Eren Jaeger,

Hello (even though this is no time to be polite, if I'm being quite frank). This is taking too long. I know I'm supposed to go slowly otherwise you'll die, but we can't go on like this—me writing letters and you ignoring them. I'm afraid I've caused you a great amount of stress.

Listen to me, Eren, and listen closely. Go through these letters with a fine-toothed comb.

Your life is in grave danger. I could help if you'd just let me.

The game is about to get interesting with a dash of terror.

Your Friend,

S

* * *

 **A/N: At this point, I literally had to copy paragraph by paragraph the chapter into here! I cannot express with words clearly enough how frustrated this honestly makes me! Don't know if I can do this _every single chapter that I upload here_ because it's just that bad. **


	3. Chapter One: Consequences

**Chapter One: Consequences**

The letters came in an elegant, red envelope that was closed with a beautifully crafted wax seal. Imprinted in the wax was an equally beautiful cursive letter "S". He thought it looked like something a prince from a far away kingdom would send as an invitation to a fancy ball that took place in his far away castle. Of course, that couldn't be right, because why would Eren ever receive such an invitation? It's not like he had many friends, especially ones that could ever be held in such a high regard.

"There it is again," he mumbled, exasperated.

"What was that?" His mom. "You know what I've told you about mumbling."

Yes, he did know, because no matter how many times she made him commit it to memory, he did it anyways and that earned him yet another reminder. _Don't mumble._

He could already see the outline of the red envelope in the stack of mail his mother had just brought in from outside. Again. It was like a nightmare that had gone wrong and accidentally leaked into the real world. Maybe he was schizophrenic. No one else could see these letters after all.

"Nothing, mom. I just . . . noticed that they've sent us the same advertisement for the second day in the row. What a waste of oil, am I right?" he joked.

These letters had begun to press down upon his mood. It seemed he was never happy these days. Even worse, there was a sense that he was supposed to get back to something—something important. There was something he had to do but he just couldn't remember it. It was a constant nagging in the back of his skull.

Have you ever thought of something but when you went to say it, you found that you couldn't remember what it was? That's what this felt like but on a grander scale. It wasn't just once, it was all the time everyday. It wears down on a soul. Eren felt older than his mother at the age of fifteen. Somehow wiser with the weight of this secret on his shoulders. It wasn't pleasant.

"Hey, are you alright?" his mother suddenly asked. He looked up from the mail that was messily splayed across the kitchen table to find her eyebrows pushed up in concern. Oh, right, he thought. I can't let her know.

He forced a smile that he was sure his mom's beady eyes could see through. "I'm fine!" He attempted a slight chuckle but it ended up sounding somewhat like a cough.

Eren remembered seeing the same type of expression before—very recently, in fact—when he'd done the unthinkable and actually asked her if she could see them, too. The prospect of that now seems silly, but back then he was just a newbie and didn't know the consequences. He has to remind himself of that often.

"What do you mean?" she'd asked, laughing a little. "There's no fancy red envelope."

"What? But . . . it's laying right there!" he'd protested.

"There's nothing there!"

"Yes there is! It's big and red with a fancy seal!"

That time, his mother had chuckled and waived it off with an "If you say so," before returning to her laptop, but Eren insisted. This wasn't a joke to him. If he was legitimately seeing things, then he was truly, utterly scared. Thus, he was insistent and continued to ask his mom the same question. After the third time, she'd said, "The joke stopped being funny last week."

He'd stopped then, afraid that her next answer might be something along the lines of sending him to get psychiatric help. Yes, doctors are there for that exact reason, but he was doing fine otherwise despite a small bout of depression. On some level, however, the prospect was appealing because once they'd see the results that he was mentally sound, perhaps people would start to believe him. The only thing that stopped him was that the other possibility was worse.

He hadn't just showed his mom; he showed it to his teachers as well since they never lied to him—not even to make him slightly happier. They had the same reaction.

Maybe he was crazy. The stress of that seemed to be getting to him these days and only his mom noticed. He had to be honest with himself at some point—he sometimes skipped school because depression hit him like a brick in the forehead and he didn't want to get up, do anything, see anyone. Those were the truly awful times. He wished things like depression would just go away, but what he really wanted was for the letters to stop coming. Even better, he wanted somebody else to be able to see them.

He stopped hoping. He never bothered to ask anyone anymore, sure that if he did it too often people would spread rumors that he really _did_ have something wrong with him.

"Eren?"

What?

"Oh, yeah, mom?" Back to the present. He's in the kitchen with his mom as she makes something that smells _really_ good. This is where he is, not the past.

"Are you _sure_ you're okay? If you're not, just tell me."

"Jesus, _yes!_ I'm okay!" he snapped at her.

This kind of behavior from him was normal.

"Eren," she began, "you can get upset at me for a lot of things, but don't ever get upset with me for caring about you!"

He'd hurt her feelings. Everyday she felt like she was losing contact with her son—he was drifting and soon he'd be too far along for her to catch—and the snapping didn't help her worried mind.

Eren hung his head in what seemed to be shame. "Sorry."

He left the room solemnly before turning to his right and slumping up the stairs. His socked feet shuffled against the fluffiness of the carpet and calmed him slightly. After all, who _doesn't_ love fluffy carpets?

He'd have to make it up to his mother later. Eren had really meant his apology and he hoped she knew it. He thought she probably did. She'd really only ever gotten mad with him when he'd told her he wanted to join the military when he was old enough. She'd yelled at him: "You're too young to make such big decisions!"

Of course Eren had understood his mother's concerns, but at the same time he thought that it was his own life and he had a right to make his own decisions. Just because he wasn't eighteen didn't mean he didn't know what he was doing. He hated that about adults—they always think kids don't know anything, yet he already had his life figured out by the time he was ten.

Eren himself had always had large ambitions and people realized very quickly after meeting him that once Eren Jaeger set his mind to something, he would do it. He contained such a sense of tenacity that it would stun people. Their remarks became generic: "You're still working on that?" "When are you gonna give that dream up?" "Haven't you realized that it's not going to happen?"

Eren answered them all the same with message. "Apparently I haven't realized that and at this point if it hasn't happened, then I don't think it's true." It was an admirable quality to most while others found it slightly annoying.

Eren had finally reach his white, wooden door when a splitting migraine ripped through his system, causing him to lurch forward. There was a pounding in his head and suddenly he seemed very dizzy. He sucked in quickly through his teeth in pain.

"Am I allowed to ask if you're okay?" he heard his mom call up.

"Gah!" he croaked. "Migraine!"

"Oh, sorry." His mom went back to cooking dinner.

Eren stumbled into his room, the door accidentally slamming against the wall. His mom hated it when he did that—she said it caused holes (which it did but Eren could care less about the condition of the walls right then). He knew the layout of his room well from spending a considerable amount of time in it and he knew just the right way to fall so he'd plop comfortably down on his bed. Noise hurt. Light hurt. He felt like he might vomit.

Then there was that feeling—that feeling of on the brink of remembering something. It was much stronger now. What was it, what was it, what was it?! What did he have to do?

Then it stopped. The pain stopped, the feeling stopped, and for the first time in longer than he'd like to admit, Eren felt . . . at peace. He decided he liked this feeling—this calm after a storm. Was this the rainbow after the hurricane? Would this awful feeling finally stop?

Apparently not because just a few moments after that, the feeling came back. The nagging in the back of his skull.

That migraine had been the worst that'd happened so far. Ever since the letters—those damned letters—had starting appearing, they'd become more frequent and more painful. It felt like someone was taking a hammer to his head, they were that bad.

A tap, tap and a fluttering of wings at his window caused him to turn his head and look over at a bird—a chickadee it seemed—that had . . . an envelope in its beak? Not just any envelope, but an elegant red one with a wax seal imprinted with an _S_.

This wasn't right. A letter had never come unexpected before.

Eren wondered what would happen if he just didn't open the window and ignored the letter altogether? Would they stop coming? The letters were ruining any semblance of peace and balance he had in his life and he hated them. But there was a stronger reason—a reason he couldn't quite put his finger on. He was angry with them because they have no right to ruin this . . . this life he had! It's not their place.

Was he seriously upset at inanimate objects? No, he was upset with the person behind the letters. Who were they? What were their motives? The content of the letters was an entirely different conversation. As far as Eren was concerned, they were just thoughtless babble . . . but were they? Were they really? He didn't want to believe them, he really didn't, but he also couldn't deny the semblance of truth whenever S spoke of that urge, that urge he had to do something. It was getting so annoying and stressful.

He was constantly tapping on things, as if tapping was what he really needed to do. He all of sudden had an overwhelming amount of nervous energy with no way to channel it. The tapping helped, but he knew in the end that the only way to make the feeling go away was to finally figure out what he was missing. He was missing something . . . someone? Who was he missing? _What_ was he missing?

All this adversity to the turn of events caused him to take notice of the bird with the envelope in its beak, stand up, walk over to the window, and promptly punch it with all his might, effectively scaring away the bird and creating a small crack in the otherwise smooth glass.

His first reaction was: _Shit, that hurt!_

His second reaction was: _Maybe I could cover that crack with . . . I don't know . . . Does glass filler exist? I think I've seen commercials for things that fix cracks in your windshield, but would that work on windows?_

And finally his third was: _Hopefully that bird won't come back._

He felt a strange sense of accomplishment after he'd scared the bird off like, "Yes! Take that, S!" With that taken care of, he was left with an empty room and nothing to do. That familiar feeling of pressure at the back of his head started again—stress.

The rush of adrenaline he'd gotten wore off almost instantly and he fell tiredly atop his comforter and snuggled with the blanket that happened to be lying there. His sheets were of a plain design—the calm colors of green and blue stripes—and they were his favorite he'd ever had. Eren willed the throbbing in his head to go away. _Go away, go away, go away . . . please?_ His begging didn't work and the ache remained.

He thought of happier, less stressful times—times where his father and mother were younger and richer and didn't work so much and they spent more time together. He thought of one scene in particular from his childhood. They—his mom and himself—were walking along a park path in the woods. It was cold out, perhaps sometimes in January, and the freezing temperatures had finally reached the small digits of Eren's hands. He was equipped with only cloth mittens and a small, spring jacket. Eren's mother knew full well that the dress wasn't exactly appropriate, but then again, she'd always been about "roughing it" and "toughening up" because she apparently thought it built character.

Eren from the past held his small, freezing hands—he had to've been only five-years-old—before whining, "Mommy, my hands are cold!"

His mom looked down at him and smiled as she shivered. "I know but when we catch up with your dad, I'm sure we'll be able to warm them up."

His dad had gone ahead of them with the excuse that he was planning some special surprise they couldn't see yet. He never did things like this so while his mom had been suspicious, she went along with it.

Fast forward a few minutes when Eren complained again and he remembered very clearly her bending down and cupping his hands in her own before bringing them up to her mouth. She breathed into them and rubbed them together. "Wow your hands really are cold," she'd remarked, shivering. "Sorry, Eren. We probably should've dressed you better and given you your winter gloves."

"Yeah," Eren agreed. "We should've."

"Okay, let's hurry up before we freeze to death! Ready to run? There might not be snow on the ground but it could be icy so be careful, okay?"

"Okay, mommy."

And they ran. They ran all the way to an open field where their eyes were greeted with a truly remarkable sight—his father with a picnic blanket spread on the cold, ground and a variety of picnic foods splayed out neatly before him.

"Grisha!" his mom exclaimed loudly.

"Carla!" his father greeted, smiling widely with his cheeks rosy and pink from the cold. "Surprise!"

The plan was for them apparently to have a picnic in January which was even more absurd considering they lived in Michigan. His dad always had been on the odd side, if people were honest. Eren's mom was reluctant to go through with these plans—the cold was already causing all of them discomfort—but she acquiesced and tried to have a picnic with her son and husband. Eren can still remember what his dad looked like—a rosy red tint to his cheeks, shivering, yet smiling wider than he can ever remember him smiling.

Of course, they couldn't survive the cold forever. Barely ten minutes into the impromptu picnic, both his mom and dad packed it up and walked Eren back to the car. Eren remembered feeling a bit disappointed that their family picnic had been cut short until he noticed that they weren't actually leaving. The back door of their van was lifted up and the chairs pushed forward leaving a large space for them to set things back up. They had a picnic in the back of their van and it was admittedly the fondest memory Eren held of his parents.

Eren was broken out of his memories by a noise coming from his computer. He groggily opened his eyes. The computer screen was lit up and open to his email. The page was refreshing . . .

His email exploded with over a thousand new messages, the notification noise he'd sent filling up the entire room.

 _DING_

 _DING_

 _DING_

 _DING_

 _DING_

 _DING_

 _DING_

Then his computer crashed.

Eren shot out of bed and ran over to the desktop, trying fruitlessly to get it to work again. He just kept getting the same annoying, blue screen.

"Crap," he muttered. How was he supposed to explain this? Was this one of those scams? Was all his personal information gonna be stolen? He was only fifteen; what could they have possibly gained? Nothing important, so nothing to worry about besides the fact he couldn't use his computer now. Maybe the problem would fix itself if he waited.

"Eren!" That was his mom. "Dinner's ready!"

"Coming!"

The air was heavy with the scent of freshly baked, buttery roles and he could even taste it on his tongue, already salivating at the thought. To put it bluntly, his mother could cook.

Not too soon after she'd called him, he found himself slumping back down the stairs and sitting at the kitchen table, a bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup and biscuits in front of him. Just as he was about to lift the spoon to his mouth, he took a last glance at his soup and saw something definitely out of the ordinary.

There was a freaking red envelope in his soup bowl. _In his soup bowl._

"Hey, mom," he began before he remembered she couldn't see these. "Never mind. Soup's good, by the way."

"Thank you very much," and she went on with preparing her own plate, completely oblivious to the monstrosity in his bowl.

Slowly, he pulled the letter out of the liquid and placed it down on the table where it dripped soup everywhere.

"Eren, if the soup's going to spill out of your spoon, eat over the bowl, please," his mom reprimanded. Was that what it looked like he was doing?

"Uh, sorry."

Carefully, he broke the wax seal and pulled out the letter hidden in the envelope.

 _Dear Eren Jaeger,_

 _Hello. I'm not happy with you and that is something you don't want to happen. From this point on, it's imperative that you take extra care with my letters. We've no time for schedules anymore. The only point of that was to give you the illusion that you had at least a little bit of control over your life._

 _If you keep doing this, the consequences will be far worse than just your computer crashing._

 _There's someone I'd like you to meet. I can't tell you her name; that'd be too quick of a step forward. If you want these letters to stop and your life to return to normal, I would follow my directions._

 _Directions are in the letter that the bird dropped after you scared it off._

 _Better hurry. Daylight's fading fast._

 _Your Friend,_  
 _S_

Eren didn't appreciate being threatened and in the face of a much larger force, instead of being intimidated, he was angry and ready for a fight. His frustration with this mysterious person was rising. What made it even worse was that he could do nothing back to him. Eren was completely powerless under the watchful eye of this anonymous being.

He hadn't even figured out their intentions yet. Were they good? Were they bad? He had no clue. It seemed as if he were just being manipulated to do whatever S told him to. If it was for Eren's benefit or not, at this point he couldn't really tell. But what he did know was that he was being threatened and him being powerless, had to go along with it. He had no other choice.

Conversation was sparse during dinner. Neither of them had anything really interesting to talk about so for most of it they made insignificant small talk. Eren eventually asked something.

"Hey, mom, . . . when's dad coming home? Isn't he supposed to be back tonight?" Eren already had an answer in his mind, but he retained a slight hope that perhaps things would be different today.

The tension in the air was palpable.

"Well, his airplane landed. He's just . . . with some friends before he comes home. He'll be back soon."

Eren had always been under the impression that his mother and father loved each other, but recently things seemed to be rocky. His father and mother didn't spend lots of time together these days since his dad's work caused him to move around a lot. They were making quite a bit of money from his job, but was it really worth it if they never got to see each other? The last time Eren and his dad had done something—just the two of them—had been maybe two years ago and even that had only been clothes shopping (something Eren insisted he do without his mother).

 _Oh well_ , Eren thought solemnly. _We don't need him here anyways._

Afterwards, Eren did the dishes and waited until his mom went up to her room. Then, he bolted outside and around the house. He stopped underneath his bedroom window and looked around. Perhaps it would've been too good to be true had the letter just been directly beneath his window and if it were there, Eren's positive he would've seen it. After all, how do you _not_ see a bright red envelope when everything around you is a muted gray?

S had been right—there wasn't much daylight left. The sun had already set and now they were in the odd half-light between night and day. Eren searched until there was no light left to see by and the cold really set into his fingers. The weather was always sketchy in Michigan so despite it being summer vacation, it still got freezing at night. He would've just taken his phone out and use its flashlight once it had gotten too dark, but his mother had called him inside already. He thought that was an especially stupid reason to be pulled away from finding this envelope, but getting grounded certainly wouldn't have helped him in this situation. He moped back inside, feeling defeated and exhausted.

What he saw lying on his pillow once he made it to his room made him extremely pissed off.

It was the red envelope except this time it had a sticky not on it. The sticky note read:

 _Did you not read the back of the letter? It said I was just kidding! It's been here the whole time._

He probably would've cussed S out had the walls been soundproof.

Hastily, Eren ripped open the letter.

 _Dear Eren Jaeger,_

 _Hello. You probably didn't read the back of the previous letter and now you're upset. Well done. At least you listened and actually did what you're told for once._

 _But you're looking for directions, aren't you._

 _All I'll say is this:_

 _Why don't you go grocery shopping at around . . . oh, let's say 3 o'clock in the afternoon? I already know tomorrow works for you._

 _The girl you're looking for will look sad._

 _Your Friend,_  
 _S_


	4. Your Friend, S (2)

Dear Mikasa Ackerman,

Hello. I'm writing to inform you that something's gone terribly wrong. You may not know me personally nor have you ever seen this address (no where), but I hope you do know that I'm looking out for you; I'm simply fulfilling that duty by sending the letters you'll receive in the future.

Do you ever feel like you're floating? Like you're dreaming? Maybe that's because you need to wake up.

Your Friend,

S

* * *

Dear Mikasa Ackerman,

Hello. Ever wondered why your favorite color's red?

Your Friend,

S

* * *

Dear Mikasa Ackerman,

Hello. I see your health's taking a blow as well. Perhaps that's a side effect I'll have to warn people about in the future—mental health particularly, it seems. The depression will hopefully go away soon, but I must inform you that the longing for someone will not.

You miss them, don't you? Ah, but who could it be? I think yours will be the most fun out of them all.

Your Friend,

S

* * *

Dear Mikasa Ackerman,

Hello. I'm delighted to tell you that you've been the most cooperative of them all: you haven't thrown away any of these letters, you haven't ignored any of these letters, and most of all you haven't tried getting back at me by smashing a window (long story).

Perhaps you find these envelopes thrilling. Perhaps you find them oddly tantalizing.

Tantalizing came from Tantalus who's a man in Greek mythology. The story goes that Tantalus chopped up his son and cooked him in a stew before inviting all of the Gods to a little dinner party. As punishment, he was forced to stand in a pit of water with a fruit tree dangling just out of his reach. He was cursed to suffer hunger and thirst for his entire life yet he couldn't drink the water around him and he couldn't eat the fruit above him.

Based on some observations, I think that perhaps you might feel a bit like Tantalus at times.

Fear not, my brave darling, for the pain and suffering will be over soon. You'll wake up from this fake reality soon.

Your Friend,

S

* * *

Dear Mikasa Ackerman,

Hello. It seems I spoke too soon about you being cooperative. You did try to take this to the police! Oh, but you realized the hard way that no one else can see these letters. I want to let you know that I was cackling away at your angered expressions. "Don't do this again," they said. "We'll arrest you," they said.

That's right, Mikasa—don't bother the police for no reason. It's a crime in America, you know?

Your Friend,

S

* * *

Dear Mikasa Ackerman,

Hello. Having fun, are we? Grounded, are we? Upset, are we? Of course you are; you tried getting others involved. That's not something I'd recommend. I also wouldn't recommend trying to write back. I can't remember if I've already told you this in a previous letter, but oh well; there's no harm in telling you twice. It reinforces it, after all.

Well, for that little mishap with the police, there must be punishment.

Your Friend,

S

* * *

Dear Mikasa Ackerman,

Hello. Let us have a moment of silence for your grandmother's vase.

. . .

Don't do that again. It's the last thing I need.

Your Friend,

S

PS

I hope the clean-up isn't too hard; it held her ashes, after all.

* * *

Dear Mikasa Ackerman,

Hello. I've been fooling around with you. I haven't exactly been practical. Time is of the essence and what have I been doing? Scaring you into submission. While fun, it's not useful.

Wasn't there someone you wanted to see? Isn't there something that's supposed to be around your neck? Oh, ho, ho, something doesn't feel right, now does it!

I hear Kroger has some nice scarves.

"But S, isn't Kroger a grocery store?"

Yes, yes it is, but you know what if they have a mini Hallmark in there to sell you cheesy cards you'll only ever see once before they're thrown out, then it's not too outlandish to say they sell scarves.

You never know. Maybe you'll meet someone. Someone special? Surely.

Your Friend,  
S

* * *

 **A/N: Review please :)**


	5. Chapter Two: The Sad Girl

Mikasa used to feel loved—by her mother, by her father, by her seemingly endless amount of cousins, aunts, and uncles—so where were they now? Where were they while she sat on her bed, the blinds blocking out the sunlight, thinking how she could get over this? The world looks monotone, black and white, gray. The greens, yellows, and reds used to pop out in her vision like that of a single smiling face in a sea of frowning ones. Where had those colors gone?

Only one remains—red. Red letters, red flowers, red, red, red, red! Why only the color red? Why the horrible color of blood? Of misgiving? Of secrets? Why the color that reminds her of clothes stained scarlet and lives ruined by a gun or a small kitchen knife? It's a horrible color and she's grown to loathe it. It's unsightly. Ugly. Rude. How dare it call her eye's attention when it has no business in her life? She doesn't need it. Doesn't want it. She doesn't wear red clothes, doesn't like velvet cake just because the batter looks like a variant of red, and the fable Red Riding Hood makes her stomach churn.

Even worse, it's begun to pop up everywhere. Red envelopes—everywhere. "S" is an awful person, she decides. S hangs things over her head and she's scared, so very scared. She wants support but if she tells anyone, she's told her grandmother's favorite vase won't be the only casualty in this sick game. The vase. It held her ashes and now the remains of her beloved grandmother were scattered everywhere across the floor. Mikasa's mother was so very upset. The wind came out of nowhere, knocking papers everywhere and soon something fell over, creating a chain of events that lead to the vase on their mantle being knocked to the ground. Ashes blew in the breeze and Mikasa thought it was actually good for her grandmother to fly every once in awhile.

She felt like replying to S anyways with a snarky message, but she knows that if she did, there would be some punishment. Who knew what it could be next? What if it were her family? It'd be her fault that they'd be hurt and she couldn't live with that guilt. At least, that's the reason she decides to believe. There's an undertone of something else—something she'd rather not look in the eye—but she knows for a fact that she couldn't live without the concerned knocks of her mother on her white, wooden bedroom door. She knows for a fact that she couldn't live without the motivational and somewhat cheesy lectures of her father. Little nothings make the difference in life. So she tucks that inkling of something else away for a day where she can handle the self-loathing that will surely follow.

It's something one shouldn't consider while they're sad and alone, sitting in their room with no one around them and definitely not if the depression she's been under decides to remain another day. She can live with this, she thinks, but there's something else she must . . . do. There's something she's missing in her everyday life and she hates to think it despite it being true, but she realized this right when the first letter slid into her mailbox.

I'm only fifteen, she often thinks, so just leave me alone. Let me live my life peacefully.

She means her pleas. Mikasa misses the days when the sky shined blue instead of gray and the brightness of the sun reached her eyes, its warmth lingering on her skin afterwards. She misses the days when opportunity seemed to flow through her very veins and leach from her pores. But now, the days seem endless and most colors of the world are gone. There's no beauty in a sunrise or sunset for her. There's no beauty in the world anymore.

What's the point of living if we're all just going to die in the end? The question has come up multiple times, but someone's answered it for her already—her father, in fact. He'd said to her, "The point of life is to enjoy it! So perk up, sweetie." He'd been concerned about her mental state. C's and D's started to make appearances in her report cards whereas before she'd been a straight-A student. What changed in her? her parents would wonder. What happened to our little girl?

The change came in little paper packets of red—the wax seal stamped with a letter S. Yet she can't tell them that, can she? Yes, we've already established this fact. She can't. She mustn't. She couldn't. She won't.

Knock, knock, knock at her window. A shadow appears in the gray light, casting its darkness on her walls. A bird? Mikasa's not certain what type but— . . . ah, there's an envelope in its beak—typical according to the most recent events. The bird won't stop pecking at the glass until she does something, will it.

She treads with trepidation, slowly and cautiously, towards the window. Quietly, she slides it open and the letter lands on her windowsill, precariously balanced and shinier than usual.

The bird continues to hover just outside her house as if in waiting. What's it waiting for? she asks herself. A tip or something?

"Sorry, I can't give you anything," she says to the bird. Her voice comes out cracked and hoarse from disuse. Mikasa senses the mood of the bird change into something more exasperated. She imagines it saying, 'Really? Gosh, I fly all this way to deliver this to you and no food!' Why do all the voices she imagines in her head have sarcastic and rude attitudes, she wonders.

The bird flutters away and Mikasa barely thinks about how weird it was that she spoke to an animal. Well, with the recent events in her life, it really isn't that strange.

The envelope lies on her sill—innocuous enough, but intimidating all the same. It's never crossed her mind that maybe she just ignore these letters. Not once. But what if she did now? Would it be worth it? Or would they just keep coming back again and again until she finally acknowledged their existence? Most likely, it'd be the latter and her small act of defiance would gain her nothing. It was stupid to consider it even for a second.

Solemnly, wordlessly, she opens it and strains to read the calligraphy in the bad lighting.

It reads:

 _Dear Mikasa Ackerman,_

 _Hello. Remember when I told you to go to the grocery store today to buy scarves? Well, I forgot to mention there's someone you should be looking for._

 _He'll be blonde with blue eyes and look like he's searching for something which he will be (probably carrying a backpack as well). It's alright to tell him about the letters—I keep forgetting to remind people. I'll have to send a whole other letter to get that little tidbit of information across! I'm all over the place these days; forgive me._

 _I'm sorry the depression hasn't worn off yet. The world will be colorful soon, but I must say that that includes the color red. It was never my intention to make you despise it so much, but you'll get over that soon._

 _I promise. I always keep my promises._

 _Your Friend,  
_ _S_

 _PS  
_ _Turn the lights on when reading! You'll hurt your eyes!_

The description! The description of that person seemed to form a picture, an image, in her mind but it was blurry, obscured, hard to see and the last vestiges of it is already slipping away—slipping past her quickly fading soul. She was fading away—turning into something she never thought she'd become. Sad, alone, weak, powerless. The heart and assertiveness she'd garnered as a young child rushing away slowly like small grains of sand.

And so was the image. The boy, she'd figured that much out of the blurry form. Blonde. Blue eyes. A book. Where had she seen that before?

Mikasa felt as if she'd opened up a door into the unknown but instead of something scary, it was a startling sense of euphoria, happiness, something akin to clairvoyance. It was like a drug, putting her mind on a high and making her feel invincible. Why, she hadn't felt this good in days, maybe weeks, maybe even months! It felt like years since she'd felt this sort of freedom but the rational part of her knew that wasn't the case. In reality, the time was much shorter.

She felt like she knew him closely. How else would those features be so familiar? As if she'd known them like the back of hand. The boy was smart; he'd have answers. Surely, if she were to meet him, there were secrets to be shared—little hints he'd share with her.

This feeling, this happiness, when she saw the image of this boy convinced her entirely.

She had to see him again.

She sat in a rocking chair—wicker and creaky like wicker chairs should be. The normality was comforting in her ever-changing world of mystery. It should've been upsetting—so many factors she didn't control—yet for some reason it wasn't. Mikasa had learned long ago to "go with the flow" and now it was much harder to knock her off balance and into confusion and she considered it her special skill, but that didn't mean having to use it didn't tick her off. All she wants is a normal life which means no letters, no people she didn't remember, and no need for her "special skill" to come out and play.

There was something off about this particular Kroger, Mikasa thought. The people seemed to walk with preprogrammed purpose that was the opposite of the usual hustle and bustle of grocery stores. There should be people who forgot their grocery lists, frantically trying to remember what they were supposed to buy before jogging over in the general direction of where they felt their desired food was. These people felt like robots—dull faces, dull minds. Fake. It felt like the calm before a storm; it set Mikasa's senses on high alert.

A grocery store: the center of human activity because of the one object everyone craves—food. Food is colorful and full of soul. What one eats shows something about their personality. But, she wonders, if food is so colorful, then why does it only look red and gray? Apples have color, raspberries have color, red bell peppers have color, but bananas' colors are dulled. Oranges look like a nasty shade instead of the bright orange she's used to. So do cucumbers and so do plums and so do pineapples.

It's going to drive her insane one day.

In a world of gray, only the color red seems to stand out.

All of a sudden, there's blue. No, no, not the washed-out, faded color of blue she's become accustomed to, but the one that whispers promises of mystical fantasies out at sea, promises of freedom as a bird soars through the air, and promises of something sweet—like the blue syrup poured on ice at a light-hearted fair. The color of blue she's long missed, and its vessel is threaded cloth—blue jeans.

Blue jeans that just so happen to belong to the one boy she's been waiting here for. His eyes are blue and it's not washed-out either, but Mikasa's first glances at actual color in such a long time have distorted her vision so that all of it looks pretty and promising, and such distortion makes the storminess of the boy's eyes come as a slap in the face. Those blues don't look happy, but angry with a spark of intelligence—determined, ready for a fight. Mikasa's hypnotized and can't look away even as he catches her eye and gives her an odd look of questioning. His gaze is asking, "Why?"

Mikasa has no answer.

Despite the darkness of his expression, the boy's appearance is innocuous enough. His hair's longer than the usual boyish haircut, coming down over his forehead and poking at the edges of his vision. It's blonde—a conspicuous hair color already, amplified by Mikasa's odd "vision impairment" she's had to work through. He looks to be about her age, but there's still a bit of roundness to his cheeks that makes him look juvenile, completely contradicting his stance and overall demeanor of authority.

Mikasa's positive—this is the boy. She'd been looking through an unfocused camera lens before when picturing him, but now she's figured out how to focus it. Definitely him. Everything from the color of his hair and the pallor of his skin to the scrawniness of his arms and the fragile appearance of his body fits exactly her image of what this boy should look like. Yet from the total sharpness of her mind comes a cloudy thought: he should look a bit more toned. Other than this fact, the boy in her head and the boy in front of her are exact matches.

"Can I help you?"

Mikasa may look apathetic on the outside, but within she feels the same euphoria as before. How could she not? Having this person stand in front of her felt like a missing piece had just been fitted back into the puzzle of her life. She barely recognizes that he's talking to her before she stands up quickly, surprising them both. Their heights differ not drastically per se but there's a significance they can both tell. Maybe 10 centimeters apart with her being the taller one, she estimates.

"I'm sorry, what?" she asks, dazed in his presence.

"You were staring at me," he states bluntly. He sounds most certainly irritated, enough so that it shakes Mikasa out of her trance to give the situation a full look. An important boy in front of her, she feels like she knows him yet they've never met, and he's asked her a question—one she can't quite recall—and has also pointed out that she was staring.

Mikasa blinks, once, twice, thrice before letting her mouth hang open like a fish, lips poised to speak as they patiently wait for her mind to catch up. Mikasa must make a good first impression, must seem like she's normal and friendly—enough so that he'll decide to stick around for a bit. The words finally come.

"That's right; I was staring at you. My name's Mikasa by the way, and yours?"

Mikasa, for some reason, is inclined to hold out her hand for a shake as if she knows that's what he prefers when meeting new people.

"Armin . . . Arlert," he adds on, almost like an afterthought. Crisp, clear, and calculated, come his words in a pitch that's still prepubescent. His eyes are flickering across her features, searching for something he can recognize because surely he's seen her before, too. Surely he's felt the same way about her.

"But why were you staring again?" he reiterates, the irritation in his voice being replaced by a searching, questioning tone.

"Sorry, but you looked familiar. Have we met before?" Mikasa doesn't have to try very hard to come off as a chirpy, cheery person since meeting him makes her feel that way naturally.

"I was just thinking the same thing but I don't think we have." He tries for a smile but it comes out more like a grimace.

That's when she notices the thing poised between his thumb and forefinger. It's red with an S stamped into the seal.

Oh my God, it's a letter! she squeals within the confines of her mind, because this truly is a joyous moment. This boy sees the letters too! He can feel them! Hold them! Maybe even read them! Of course, she's known this all along from the moment S mentioned she was allowed to tell him about them, but seeing it in person was a whole new dazzling experience.

"Can you see this?" he asks.

The boy—no, Armin—holds up the envelope. The seal's been broken and the contents are sticking out. He must've been reading them. Were they instructions like the ones Mikasa had received? Did they instruct him to look for her?

"Yes!" she yells a bit too loudly. "Yes, I can see them, too!"

"Ugh," Armin groans and Mikasa looks slightly hurt for a moment. "I don't know what this means, then, because you're not the person I'm supposed to be looking for."

"Well, you're the person I have to find and I found you. What've you got to tell me because you've gotta be at least a little bit important." She doesn't stop to think that perhaps she comes off as too careless. Her tone is not representing of her.

"Either way," he sighs before looking back at her, "it's nice to meet you. You get these letters, too?"

Mikasa nods.

"So, you were looking for me? How long have you been getting them? Did you have any side effects? Has S ever threatened you?"

Curiosity spills out of Armin's mouth in the form of question after question. More questions follow, but Mikasa barely has any time to react to them before someone interrupts Armin and her with frantic yelling.

"WATCH OUT!"

Mikasa pulls Armin to safety, barely avoiding a shopping cart that certainly would've given injuries ranging from a broken arm to scattered bruises. The cart slams into the rocking chair she stood up from, causing items to fall everywhere and the chair to rocket backwards into the wall of the Kroger. Air drives her shirt up and blows hair in her eyes.

"Um, I'm very sorry about that," a voice says.

Mikasa and Armin turn towards the place from which the shopping cart flew to see a teenage boy.

"See, I was trying to ride on the, like, the front of it but things got out of control and so ... yeah. I apologize."

There's an explosion of colors, of feelings, inside Mikasa's mind as she looks at the teenager. The presence of Armin had unlocked certain parts of her she hadn't been able to unlock for such a long time and here this other boy was doing the exact same thing, creating the exact same connection and he wasn't even the one she was there for. This boy was another missing piece to her puzzle; she could feel it.

Colors exploded onto her canvas—greens and browns and colors of the forest—to join the yellows and blues Armin had given her. These colors promised adventures through the mountain that were deadly and perilous, yet thrilling and so much fun. There was a rush of freedom. An image appeared in Mikasa's mind—the view from a mountain's peak filled with snowy, rolling hills and jagged rocks that pierce the blue veil of the sky. She felt the image so purely represented the boy in front of her, it was almost a crime how well it fit.

The odd thing was, there was the color red mixed in his presence. It didn't fit in with him yet it did at the same time. This boy was a mixture of cool colors, yet there was red, piping hot and warm. It should've been there yet Mikasa wished it wasn't. She'd been stuck with that color for far too long; it was time to leave it behind.

It wasn't even the colors he suddenly introduced that most intrigued her, but the feeling of closeness—they held a rare connection, one that was not easily replicated.

So strong it elicited a name to the tip of her tongue. She knew this boy.

"Eren?"


	6. Guidance

"Too quickly. Too fast. Not enough time to do this right. Should I?"

" _I'm getting impatient."_

"I know, I know, you want results, but please, I beg for your guidance, sir! What am I to do in such a predicament? I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't."

" _Explain yourself! Are you really so incompetent that I have to 'push' things along? What's the course of actions you're debating? It better be important; I won't stand to have petty things blocking my way."_

"Sir, I know you hate to be called upon, but please answer me this.

"Should I kill her?"


	7. Prelude to Chptr Three: If We Must Meet

_If we must meet, then let's do it really late. I'm sure you've got some absolutely fantastic reputation to keep up. Wouldn't want me ruining it._

Ruin it? Actually, that very well may be; you're texting me from a stolen phone. I'm glad to see you care.

 _Ah, the old hag didn't need it anyways._

 _But anyways, wanna meet in a deserted alleyway? Or maybe a dirty alleyway behind a fancy restaurant would be more to your liking?_

Don't treat me like I'm someone special.

 _Um, your a governor who isn't turning me into the police despite the fact that I literally stole from your house. Your pretty special._

*You're

 _Shut up and answer the question_

Why don't you just come to my house?

 _How do I know you're not going to invite some special dinner guests?_

You mean the police? No, no, you're my special secret.

Heyyyyyy you changed your grammar error!

 _Don't think it was because you pointed it out._

 _I was only doing it in the first place to piss you off._

 _But fine. I'll come whenever I want to so leave your door open. Or, if you want, I'll just break through your security systems again._

I'd prefer it if you didn't.

 _That's what I thought._

 _Hope you don't mind but I'm bringing along a few friends._

You have friends?

 _We're in a gang._

Ah, yes, so what are their names?

 _Can't tell you that. But I will tell you this, they can both kickass just fine so don't piss us off._

 _See you sometime at your house ;) I'm deleting this conversation from this phone and returning it. Don't text this number again or you'll regret it._

Can you at least tell me /your/ name?

 _I just said don't text this number!_

Alright, alright, sorry.


	8. Chapter Three: Dark Man, Dark Alleyway

Farlan was awoken not by the noises of the city, but by two voices—Levi and Isabel, partners in crime.

"'No, no, you're my special secret'? Farlan, this guy sounds like a pedophile-rapist combo! How was he ever elected governor of a state?"

"I agree with Izzy; this doesn't sound like a good idea. At least you didn't give him our names."

"Yeah, but now we have to live up to this badassery persona he's created for us!"

"We're pretty badass, though, so that won't be too much of a problem."

"You guys do realize that I was asleep for most of the conversation, right?"

Two faces appear in his vision, their expressions blurry and obscure. The sun has only just begun rise from behind the horizon of planet Earth, leaving the sky a range of blues. A myriad of warm colors—hues of pink, orange, and yellow—are already starting to paste themselves to the clouds. The sight has always left Farlan breathless, mouth agape, no matter how many times he sees it. The Earth will never bore him.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes, silky, blonde tendrils of hair poking at the tips of his vision. It'd really reached an unorthodox length; he'd cut it soon. Their faces were clearer now. He's not surprised to see both of them with deadpan expressions. After all, he _had_ slept through most of the conversation he was apparently in.

The two go by Isabel and Levi—Levi being close to thirty-years-old with dark hair that reached down to his shoulders and an intimidating aura about him with Isabel being nineteen with greasy, coppery hair that shimmered in the sunlight and looked as if it'd been hacked at with kitchen scissors. Isabel's face was childish, her eyes sparkling with a love for the world that was rare to come by these days. Levi's was scary looking, intimidating, a jawline that could cut diamond and eyes that looked as if they'd seen too much.

"Alright, Goldilocks, time to actually get up. Shit's happenin'," Levi remarked, standing up and brushing off his immaculate jeans. He was the only one out of the three of them that took the time to make himself look nice. His reasoning went as follows: "If I have to be dirt, I'm going to be the cleanest-looking dirt you've ever seen." No one stopped him; it was his own choice to spend hours finding hoses and stealing cleaning supplies to actually wash his clothes before drying them with hand dryers in public restrooms. Levi was OCD and happen to be obsessed with cleanliness. He's been working through it, though, and recently it seems his symptoms have eased so that he can push the thoughts to the back of his mind to get a job done.

"What shit exactly?" Farlan asked drowsily.

Izzy explained, "Well, let's see, the cops probably haven't forgotten our faces yet, you set up a meeting with a pedophile, and, um, wait … that might be it. OH! And, we've still gotta figure out what to wear!"

Isabel—Izzy for short—sat indian-style on a cardboard box protecting her from the cold concrete. The walls of the buildings sandwiching them into the ally made the air cooler and their breath come in wisps of smoke until it evaporated into the air. Isabel was like a normal nineteen-year-old except she'd decided to completely go awol so no one from her previous life could find her, friend or foe. Farlan and Levi hadn't known her for long; it was only a couple months ago that they found her on the streets, clumps of mud in her hair and cheeks smeared with dirt. Never really liked to explain herself either, but she'd proven to be a valuable asset and sternly loyal, so they never pushed her too hard.

"Izzy, I love you, but honestly what we wear has already been decided," Levi piped up, sounding more expressive than usual. Wearing the right clothes made him happy, apparently.

Izzy cocked her head towards him as she fiddled with the loose ends of her jeans. "You've already decided? Cool, less work for me! Whatcha got, big bro?"

She'd called Levi that once and since he never objected, the name stuck. Only Izzy used it and she only used it on Levi, leaving Farlan to secretly hope it was because she thought of him as more than just family. A crazy thought, he knows, with them running from the police constantly, not knowing where they're going to stay that night or what they were gonna eat, and yet he still wishes. He'd never tell her even if he were offered a million dollars. Deep down, past all the things Farlan will never admit, his crush is even farther below that locked behind a door even he doesn't have the key to. Word will never get out.

Levi shifted on his feet and answered her question: "Something black and intimidating of course."

Izzy and Farlan deadpanned.

Incredulous, Levi asked, "What's so wrong with that? You set us up to be these rugged, thuggish badass criminals who'll never get caught by the cops and what better way to live up to it than wearing entirely black clothes and a black ski mask? I think it works."

The world is simple in Farlan's mind. It is a mindset he knows he shares with Izzy, but even after knowing Levi for years, he's still unsure how the man thinks. His own motto was the most uncomplicated thing ever, he thought: have fun.

Life is short! They weren't gonna be young forever! _Now_ is the time they should be doing what they want! Whatever they had to do, they better have fun doing it and it'll continue to be fun as long as they don't get caught and/or die of starvation or get mixed in with anything too bad such as the modern slave-trade—human trafficking. Nasty business right there. Farlan learned that from experience as well as receiving … _some_ help from the movie _Taken_ , but mostly from experience.

"Black is so overused," Izzy complained.

Levi remarked, his expression hard to decipher, "Wow."

Farlan would never admit it, but he secretly agreed with Izzy. He wouldn't go so far as to complain about it to Levi—the man was the glue that held them together and their unofficial leader (an unspoken truth)—but he still would've preferred to have a little more fun with the situation. Honestly, everyday seemed to be an endless sea of black clothes and ski masks. For now, their criminal lifestyle would work, but what about their futures? He wasn't so sure this was about Levi's monotonous clothing choices anymore, but what they planned to do with their future. Farlan liked to have fun, but his sensibility and sensitivity to their surroundings was always present in the back of his mind, no matter how far behind they may be.

Noticing she'd disappointed Levi, Izzy sighed, saying, "But that doesn't mean I don't think we should wear it. It was a good idea and I'm for it. Farlan?"

"Huh?"

"The clothes?"

"Oh, yes, are we wearing those really gay shirts with all the rainbows on it?" He was only joking (trying to lighten the mood). Izzy and he chuckled while Levi only gave a silent grin—it was hard to make the man laugh but they'd always been able to make him at least smile.

Farlan took a hint. "Nah, nah, I understand. Black clothes, black ski masks. We should go to the library and see if we can find the blueprints for the governor's house. Don't know if that'll just be online for all to see, though."

"Doesn't matter," Levi interrupted. "If you need to hack something, use Iz."

Farlan looked dramatically offended. "What? But I'm just as good with compu—" They both gave him a look. "—Yeah nevermind. I'll need your help then, Iz."

She smiled at them, eyes scrunching up into little commas sitting atop her chubby cheeks. "Sure thing, Far!"

It was agreed. Three criminals were going to meet the governor at night.

"I'll catch up with you guys at the library later," Levi said. He was searching around the alley for the place he'd hidden his stuff in. Preparing to go somewhere?

"Where will you be?" Farlan asked, one eyebrow cocked in surprise. "We're not gonna start seeing other people are we? I'm not ready to break up!"

"You're not being replaced," Levi assured. "I've just got some _personal_ business to attend to. Got it?"

Oh, yes, Farlan got it. "Personal" business. Maybe Levi would share with him later and maybe he wouldn't—Farlan learned a long time ago that it was best not meddle in things he wasn't involved.

But was he really so uninvolved?

After a quick wash up in a public restroom, Izzy, Farlan, and Levi split ways. Levi walked away with a wave of his hand and a solemn smile on his face, his clothes in disarray with not even an attempt made to fix his hair into something more presentable. Something was off. That was unlike Levi, but Farlan didn't have much time to process it before his best friend turned a corner, leaving him alone with Izzy and a walk to the library. There was something wrong with that though: Farlan wouldn't be heading to the library.

Farlan looked down as he walked, marvelling at how the sidewalk seemed to sparkle in the sunlight and wondering how he could put this lightly.

Finally, he decided, Better to get it over with.

Farlan stopped abruptly on the sidewalk and grabbed Izzy's wrist to slow her down. Realizing what he'd done, he let go quickly after that. "I'll catch up with you later. You're better with computers anyways! Bye!"

He ran off down the sidewalk after Levi, not even thinking about how Izzy might feel about this and definitely not looking back.

His footsteps were loud in his ears; he needed to be quieter; he slowed down but then he wondered if he were losing Levi's trail. Legitimately, Farlan hadn't spotted him yet and if he didn't soon he would turn back around and lie to Izzy that he had to take a piss or something stupid like that. Just when he thought he'd screwed up, he spotted him.

Levi was standing at a crosswalk, head down, hood up, hands in pockets, creating an aura of suspicion and intimidation. It was a tactic he used many times—in front of Farlan as well. The point was not to be so suspicious that you drew the attention of the wandering law enforcement, but to make sure no one really wanted to talk to you on the street. Surely, someone that looked like Levi did now wouldn't have anything interesting to talk about, would he? Then again, that depends on if you believe small talk is considered interesting. In Farlan's mind, he didn't mind it, but he remembers Levi expressing passionately how much he hated small talk—it was just a distraction from the real matters at hand, he'd said.

Farlan kept his distance as the red hand turned into the crude image of a walking man and people began their trek across the busy street, cars lining the road. His blond hair would stick out, wouldn't it; he'd do something about that. Farlan put his hoodie up. The bad thing about this was that summer was here and the sun was roasting him like chestnuts over the fire. There wasn't much he could do about it, though. Now was not the time to be conspicuous.

Step after step. One two one two one two one two. He's not tailing someone; he's just a man in the street, same as any other person walking that day. He's the extra in a TV show. He's invisible. And the people walking by, what do they think of him? Some rebellious teenager run away from home, even though he's well surpassed the age that would define him as a teen.

Then Levi stops and for a horrifying moment, Farlan thinks he's somehow figured out that he's tailing him. Had he seen his reflection in the windows of the buildings? Recognized his posture and form? Possibly. Probably. Levi was a sneaky man whom one wouldn't want after them.

Then Levi shakes his head, mumbles something to himself like he's trying to say he's not crazy, and marches on.

Lucky. Farlan was very, very lucky. A hitch in his breath, and he walks on, slowly, carefully, step by step into the darkness of an alleyway.

"Alright, Farlan, what do you want?"

Levi's back is turned to him and Farlan isn't saying a word.

"You're very bad at this, you know? For managing to pull off several thefts without being caught—by people or on camera, you seem to be bad at being stealthy. I mean, come on, you're wearing a hoodie only _you_ own."

Levi doesn't sound mocking—he never does—but he doesn't sound nice either. Cut-off from emotions and cold. His words hold a razor sharp edge straight to his throat. What would Levi do now that he knew Farlan had been following him?

"Don't think I mistrust you," Farlan reassured. "I was only trying help—"

"I don't need your help. I've got things under control here. Think I can't handle myself?"

Farlan's eyebrows furrowed in agitation. "That's not what I meant! You know that's not what I meant! You're not invincible, Levi. You keep wanting to do stuff without us and it'll get you into some real trouble. I'm your friend and I was just trying to help. Now, what're you doing out here in this shady place?"

"Every place in Detroit is shady."

A joke? No laughter.

"Get out of here, Farlan."

"What?"

"You heard me. Just leave. I don't want you tumbled up with this shit, okay?"

"Think I can't handle myself?" he shot back. "Doesn't feel so good, huh."

Levi turned around and grit his teeth, in frustration it seemed. "Goddamit, Farlan. Where's Izzy? Did you just leave a pretty girl like her by her lonesome?"

"Oh, so now you're saying Izzy can't protect herself either?"

Levi takes a step back, perhaps realizing just how much he's screwed up.

"I don't—I mean—You know that I—"

"You've been looking down on us from the very moment you met us. We're supposed to be a team!"

"Keep your voice down!" Levi grits out. "You don't know what kind of shit we're in right now! It was fucking dangerous coming here, you know that? There are people here that would kill you just to get to me and I _cannot_ let you and Izzy get hurt just because—"

"Levi! How nice to see you!"

Both men freeze, mouths open, still poised to shout at the other. Slowly, Levi's closes into a thin line, expression turning to dust. This is what happens, Farlan has learned, when Levi comes into contact with a deadly enemy: he turns into nothing. He is not longer a man, but an object whose only goal is to clear his path to victory. Levi once compared this state of mind to a dagger—sharp, concealable, and very effective.

"Kenny."

"Levi, that is no way to greet a member of your family."

A booted foot scrapes across the ground, then another just like it, and finally follows a black coat coming in at around the length of the man's knees. The cherry red bud of a cigarette floats between the lips of the mysterious man. Farlan has deduced he's not someone to be trifled with and perhaps a part of Levi's family, though Levi's never talked about having any members—alive, that is.

"Come for a little family visit?" the man asks, puffs of smoke coming from his lips and swirling around aimlessly in the air before dissipating. His voice sounds gruff and from this, plus the fact that he isn't coughing horrendously, this is not his first time smoking.

Levi has yet to turn around to face the man behind them and he's staring intently at Farlan with dead, black eyes. Out comes his Dagger-side.

"I'll speak with you in just a moment, Kenny, but first a little piggy has followed me here. Get out."

Levi has never used this tone of voice towards him and has never referred to him as something so lowly as a "little piggy". He almost points his finger at his chest and asks, "Who, me?" But he doesn't. A part of him prefers to believe that Levi holds him in high respect, that Levi would never say such things, and that this is a whole sham he puts on for this man called Kenny.

Farlan nods uncertainly.

"No need to play dumb," Kenny barks at him. Farlan almost flinches. "I overheard your conversation and from the looks of it, you're no 'little piggy' to my boy, Levi, here, am I right? Won't you come inside?"

Levi answers for him: "I don't think that's such a good—"

"Nonsense, Levi. He's your friend and I haven't even heard of him once! Besides, he's seen too much already. I can't let him leave here without the proper debriefing."

"What do you consider too much? He hasn't seen anything yet," Levi spits out.

"My face is too much. Never know when the police might come snooping about."

Levi grits his teeth. "Right. Come along then, _Farlan."_

He sounds so accusatory, as if the entire situation is his fault alone. Well, he obviously played a huge part but it certainly couldn't have been _all_ him. If Levi had never tried to keep secrets in the first place, Farlan wouldn't have followed him and they wouldn't be here. Honesty. Trust. Things like that are hard for Levi to comprehend. Farlan's only just now realizing that Levi hasn't trusted him . . . ever.

But for now they walk down this dark alleyway, following this dark man.

Their steps bounce off the hard surfaces and concrete, echoing out into the far beyond.

Kenny speaks up. "This must be about the letters. Well, you're in luck, because I caught the man sending them."


	9. Chapter Four: X Marks the Spot

" _Something must be done."_

" _Do whatever you think is best. I'm giving you a chance. Do not fail me; there will be consequences otherwise."_

" _Yessir!"_

* * *

"E-Eren?"

"Yes, that's me," the boy says curiously—surprised even. "Who are you?"

He almost ran them over with a shopping cart. His hair is a light brown and he looks to be the average body weight, maybe a little more but due to muscle, not fat. Armin guesses they're about the same age, but the sixth graders were getting increasingly large which had thrown off his previously almost perfect accuracy.

They stand just outside the entrance to the grocery store—a Kroger. The building rises up like a giant, cement palace behind them. People bustle in and out of the doors, unaware, lost in their venture to get food.

Armin gives Mikasa's facial expressions and actions a scrupulous inspection, trying to gauge her entire existence in the span of five minutes. He is one who observes and asks questions about what he sees; he doesn't like to keep quiet or the questions will eat him alive. The world is a series of equations and facts in his mind.

If he compares their situation to a science experiment, S and the letters are the independent variable while Mikasa is the dependent—one creates a situation and the other reacts to it. It's much easier to think this way. How does Mikasa react?

Wait, more importantly, how does "Eren" play into all of this? He was just a guy that almost crushed them with a shopping cart.

Armin's glancing at and scrutinizing Eren now, too. What was his eye color? he wonders.

Mikasa and Eren are facing each other. She looks ready to reach out and tackle him to the ground, but in a playful, loving way.

"I'm—I'm—I'm—"

Armin's eyes flicker over to Mikasa. She resembles a frozen computer, repeating the same thing over with the same outer look. She looks shocked, scared, and happy at the same time. People walk by with children and their grocery carts, the importance of the events taking place lost upon them.

"I'm your—"

She faints.

"Mikasa!" Armin involuntarily shouts. He lurches forward seemingly against his will just in time to catch her by her left arm; Eren catches the right. Together, they've managed to keep her from face-planting into the cement. They gain some looks, but the pedestrians walk on.

"Whoa, there," Armin hears Eren grunt to himself as he gets into a better supporting position. Armin does the same and he doesn't know if it's just because Eren's helping, but Mikasa's extremely light. He didn't notice it immediately, but she looks … _unhealthy._ Her skin is paler than it should be and it's pulled taut across her bones. What's happened to her? What, perhaps, has she been doing to herself? Eren doesn't seem to notice.

"My grandfather's waiting in his pickup truck nearby," Armin remarks as he fits Mikasa's arm around his neck and shoulders. "She can stay there to rest until she wakes up."

People were definitely looking at them now, wondering what was happening, if the girl was okay. Eren gives a small nod in Armin's direction and readies himself to walk forward, but just as they begin, someone stops them.

"Everything alright, boys?" a man with a bushy mustache asks. He's tall with burly shoulders and more importantly, blocking their way.

"Everything's fine!" Armin says a little too quickly. He tries to be calculating and calm, but he can't deny his heartbeat has heightened significantly. What if there was something seriously wrong with Mikasa? If they didn't call an ambulance and she died, her death would be on their hands. The reason behind someone's death is something Armin can't ever imagine being.

The man with the bushy mustache eyes them suspiciously.

"She's just a bit dehydrated and she passed out. It's fine," Eren pipes up. His eyes are challenging and daring. They're the epitome of "I dare you to say it again" in a way. It's excessive in Armin's view.

The man stares at Eren for a moment, then nods and walks on—albeit slower with several glances thrown over his shoulder. From what Armin's seen of Eren, he's deduced that he might be a bit belligerent and was probably very passionate about his causes. He wouldn't be surprised if he discovered Eren was also very patriotic and wanted to join the military. The last part was a generalization, but for some reason, Armin felt it fit. Eren just looked the part.

"Which way is your grandfather's car and is he going to ask a lot of questions?" Eren asks once they get a steady rhythm going.

"Turn to the right," Armin answers, taking deep breaths. So maybe he isn't the most physically fit, but he could _destroy_ you at Stratego. Never mind, that just sounds lame.

"My grandfather, by the way, is a curious man. He will undoubtedly ask questions." Eren groans. "But he'll be satisfied if I give him answers. I could lie but in this case it'd be simpler just to tell the truth. I've already lied enough today," he adds on in a quieter tone. Despite that, Armin's sure Eren's overheard him. He doesn't care.

It's summer in Michigan. It's hot. Ten minutes have gone by by the time they both manage to practically drag Mikasa to his grandfather's truck. The entire time they're walking, Armin is taking in as many details as he can.

The way Eren's hair looks in the sun.

How many time Mikasa's chin makes contact with her chest. (He's slightly worried how her spinal cord's doing.)

How heavy her weight is on his shoulders. He wonders if it's this hard for Eren as well. If it is, the boy doesn't show it.

When they finally reach the bright red pickup truck, the front seat's empty. There's no grandfather in sight, but there _is_ a bright yellow sticky note on the dashboard. It stands out against the gray interior. Only Armin seems to notice it.

"He's not there," Eren remarks, tone showing he's pleasantly surprised. Armin's satisfied with this outcome as well, but wonders where his grandfather has run off to. He supposes it'll be on the sticky note. They better take advantage of the time they have before they're pestered with questions.

"Hold her for a second," Armin says. "I'll open the door and then I'll help you get her inside.

Eren nods as Armin pushes himself out from underneath Mikasa's weight and Eren's arm is securely around her waist. Armin rolls his shoulders when he finally reaches the truck door. No matter how light Mikasa is, her weight had messed him up a bit. He needs to start working out.

He gets the door open and reclines the passenger seat so Mikasa can lay comfortably, then he waves Eren over and Armin helps pull her up and make her cozy in the seat. He takes a moment to appreciate how Mikasa looks. She looks as if … she hasn't eaten—like she's sick. Her dark hair goes down to her waist and she wears no makeup. Armin thinks that if she were healthier, she'd be very objectively attractive.

Someone gives a cough by the open truck door.

Oh, yeah, Eren's still there.

"Oh, sorry," Armin apologizes. "So your name's Eren?"

Eren's face grows darker. "Yeah … it is. Who is this? I heard you shout a name but I didn't quite catch it." He nods towards Mikasa laying in the passenger's seat.

Armin stares at her for a few seconds, thinking that the cloth of the seats might be getting too hot in the sun before even giving Eren's question a thought. Armin's become untrusting of everyone around him besides his own parents and his grandfather recently. The letters from S made it seem like he had a stalker and any new person he wasn't already familiar with, he felt could be the one he was looking for.

Finally, he says with trepidation, "She said her name … was Mikasa." Armin hopes he isn't committing a mistake by sharing that with Eren. He glances over to Eren for his reaction but finds his face surprisingly calm—no change. Odd. Maybe Mikasa really _was_ crazy and the two people held no connection. Still: Armin kept it as a possibility. After all, he'd seen weirder in the past few weeks.

"Do you want to sit down?" Armin asks after a moment of silence with only Mikasa's uneven breathing to fill it.

"I'm fine, thanks," Eren answers. "It's hot outside and you don't have the keys to turn the air conditioning on. I think I'm better this way."

Armin's never noticed it until then, but Eren looks like he spends a lot of time in the sun; he has a gorgeous tan. Armin's always thought tans looked like the beginnings of skin cancer. Perhaps that's why he was so pale. He also thinks it's actually better inside the truck instead of boiling in direct sunlight.

Despite what he says, Eren really does want to sit down. He seats himself on the black step you use to hop into the truck, legs spread with his hands firmly clasped together. He looks deep in thought, so much so that Armin's hesitant to say something even though he needs to gather info from Eren. He himself is seated in the driver's seat, head lounging back against the headrest. He wants to say something, but it's almost like someone's stuffed a rag down his throat. It starts to feel suffocating and he takes a deep breath, cutting through the thick silence, to clear the feeling away.

His shoulder was still bothering him. He rolls it again and sighs. "Looks like I messed up my shoulder somehow." That sounds better than saying he was too weak to support Mikasa's weight.

"Hm," Eren hums. "You must've been carrying more than me because I'm fine. Thanks for that, then."

I wasn't carrying more than you, Armin thinks. You're just stronger than me.

"What's the sticky note say?" Eren asks, startling Armin. So he _did_ notice. Maybe Eren takes more notes of his surroundings than Armin had given him credit for.

"Oh, yeah." He'd completely forgotten.

Slowly, lazily, Armin reaches for the sticky note. It comes off without any struggle, accompanied by a viscous noise. It's kind of disgusting. The adhesive has sort of melted off and now stays with the dashboard.

 _Gone to get some groceries, too! BRB as you say ;)_

"BRB?" Armin mutters.

"What?"

"Nothing, just my grandpa tryin' to sound cool. He went in to get groceries and'll be back soon."

"Oh," and Eren almost chuckles. "Tell me about your grandpa. Is he from your mom or your dad's side?"

"He's maternal," Armin answers. "He's kind of a weirdo."

He wants to ask Eren some things, too, but thinks it's too early to be doing so. At least Eren had slipped it in neatly, like it belonged in the conversation. If Armin attempted now, he's sure it would just come out stiff and disjointed. Even though it's just small talk, he's certain Eren had a deeper meaning behind it—trying to distract himself from their current events. Armin doesn't blame him. Who would want to be in their situation, after all?

But Armin couldn't allow that to happen.

"Do you get red letters in your mail from time to time?" he asks out of the blue. Eren tenses.

The boy sighs. "Yeah," he admits, sounding happy to get the secret off his chest. "Since you asked me about them does that mean you get them to? Or did the girl tell you?"

"Her name's Mikasa—"

"Oh, right …"

"—and I _do_ get them."

He wonders if Eren really understands what that means. The feelings of paranoia that came along with it. His GAD (General Anxiety Disorder) spiking. Eren looked like a stronger person. Maybe he hadn't had the same feelings as himself.

"Did they tell you to come here?" Eren asks. This entire time, he hasn't shown his face to Armin. He just sits there on the step of the truck, surreptitiously watching the people bring food back to their trucks.

"Yes," Armin answers quickly. His words come fluently without a moment's hesitation that perhaps Eren isn't who he says he is. Armin's getting careless, but he supposes that's what happens when you spend too much time without someone to confide in.

"Did they tell you to look for anybody in particular?" Eren asks with an undertone of hope.

"Yes. S told me to look for you." He says it confidently.

The thought's been bubbling beneath Armin's skin, in the back of his head, ever since he's met Eren. Think about it: a boy nearly runs him over with a shopping cart and then helps him bring a person he's never met before to safety. A passersby on the street wouldn't enter his life in such an explosive way—not a passersby who wasn't meant to be something important in his life, anyways. Mikasa even recognized him and Armin plans on interrogating her for some answers once she wakes up. They need to start unravelling this mystery so they can all return to their normal lives as soon as possible.

Armin explains, "More specifically, a boy with 'special' eyes." He adds in air quotes for dramatic effect. "I haven't gotten a good look at your eyes yet, but I feel like something will happen if I stare right in them."

Eren laughs to himself. "That sounded really gay."

Armin laughs, too, despite Eren's use of the word "gay" as a way to say "uncool". Just the way of the times, he guesses. "Yeah, well, it's the truth."

"I don't deny. When Mikasa wakes up, we should all read each other's letters."

Armin nods even though Eren has his back to him and he can't see the gesture. "What about you?"

"Hm?"

"Did S tell you to come find someone?"

"Her." Eren jerks his head back towards Mikasa's unconscious body.

Armin looks down, contemplating something. Then he gets it. " _I_ was told to find _you_ , _she_ was told to find _me_ , and _you_ were told to find _her_. The three of us. It's a triangle."

"Please don't make a reference to the illuminati."

"It's not that! The three of us! All three of us were supposed to meet. Did S think it would be too challenging to tell each of us to find the other two? No, no, it wasn't that … There must've been another reason we can't see."

"I understand, though," Eren breathes. "The three of us … destined to be together, huh? It sounds so cheesy. It doesn't fit the atmosphere."

"Mm," Armin mumbles. "It feels like something more sinister is taking place. I've been placed into my own horror story."

"It hasn't gotten … _too_ horrific just yet, though," Eren points out.

"You're right. Let's hope it stays that way." For some reason, Armin doesn't sound very optimistic.

The conversation falls into a comfortable lull.

Birds are constantly chirping no matter what time of day it seems in Michigan. Cars are roaming past. People are talking. There's the smell of cigarette smoke. It's a normal day. If only other people knew how abnormal is really was. But, Armin realizes, he doesn't really … _want_ other people to know. Secrets … he enjoys the feeling of knowing them. Like a constant adrenaline rush. It's exhilarating in a way. He would keep a secret forever.

Then Armin hears a sizzling and smells meat burning on a barbecue. His stomach rumbles and he's hungry. I wish I could eat that food, he thinks absentmindedly.

His eyes snap open.

Who would be grilling in a Kroger's parking lot?

"Eren!"

Armin turn his head and calls his name loudly. Eren jumps up, face pale like he's just seen a ghost and immediately turns his attention to Mikasa's right hand. It's burning. Mikasa's still unconscious, but now she looks troubled in her sleep, face contorting into something painful.

"Holy shit," Eren mutters.

The skin's bubbling up, filling the entire car with the aroma of … beef, like a cookout. How disturbing. Small tears fall from the corner of Mikasa's eyes. In that moment, she looks so helpless, so sick, so vulnerable. Armin wants to just hug her really hard until she either wakes up or pushes him off her. She looks like she's dying. He doesn't know her very well and he hasn't known her for very long either, but for some reason, the scene is breaking his heart. She was sent here to find him. The look she'd given him … like he was there to save her or something. It was kind of pitiful.

"What's happening to her?" Eren asks, frantic.

"Sh, sh, look!" he shouts wildly. Armin points to her hand. It's cooling quickly— _very_ quickly.

It was not as if someone had taken a fire to her skin that licks the air wildly and burns whatever it touches, but a hot iron—deliberate in its activities. The Ancient Romans used to brand their runaway slaves with the letter "F" as punishment with hot irons. Hot irons _burn._ Punishment. Was Mikasa being punished? Why would S do that? Because of course this is S's doing. There's no doubt in Armin's mind. Except Mikasa had done nothing wrong, so why would S do this to her?

On the back of Mikasa's hand, an "X" has been branded onto the skin. It's black and burned and the smell is disturbing. Surrounding the X, the skin is in much better condition but is still damaged a fair amount. This is sickening. When S threatens, does this prove he actually means it? S was stronger than Armin had thought.

"An X," Eren says, still in slight shock. "What do you think this means?"

Armin sits there for a moment, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

"X marks the spot."

Eren starts, eyes going wide and mouth hanging open for a second, before his face settles down into what looks like rueful acceptance.

They sit in a pregnant silence, the summer heat heating their skin into a sweat. Something needed to be said, but neither of them could speak. What would they do now? Armin's grandfather was sure to come back soon. What would they do with Mikasa? Would she even wake up? Armin feels his anxiety rising up the back of his throat, suffocating him.

There's a sound—almost like a squeak—that comes from the passenger seat. Both boys almost jump out of their skin at the small noise and turn their heads quickly. Mikasa's eyes scrunch together and then flutter open. The motion is as smooth as silk, like the gentle flapping of butterfly wings, somehow innocent. Her dark eyes are glassy, showing no particular emotion. She looks sort of like a baby waking up from a long nap. Clean. Pure.

Then she winces in pain.

"Armin … ?" she whispers, tone asking millions of questions.

"Hey, I'm here," he says, leaning closer from where he sits in the front seat. Eren's right beside her already, face worried and questioning. Armin's trying to sound calm despite being suddenly frightened at S's amount of power.

She smiles at him and it feels like he's looking into the sun. She turns her head to the right where Eren stands, his face suddenly surprised when she looks at him. He shuffles on his feet, for some reason looking nervous. Do pretty girls make Eren nervous? Armin wonders. It's irrelevant. Armin asks too many questions.

He can't see her face anymore, but her body tenses. "Who are you?"

"What?" Eren stammers. "You said my name only moments ago." She continues to stare. Dumbfounded, Eren recites, "I'm Eren Jaeger." The syllables sound practiced on his lips.

Mikasa smiles at him but it's not the brilliant shining one she'd given Armin; this one holds pity. "I'm sorry; I don't know you."

* * *

 _ **Sorry my writing's really sucky. I've been trying to get better, but even though I revised this three times, it still sounds bad to me and recently, nothing I write has been sounding good.**_

 _ **I like the plot to this fanfic though, so I will continue to write it and maybe this will be taken down to be rewritten ...**_ **again _but I guess if that's what's gotta happen, then that's gotta happen._**


	10. Chapter Five: Innocent

**Chapter Five: Innocent**

"Farlan, Farlan, Farlan," Izzy mutters. "Where've you gone off to now?"

Levi had been acting strange. He was leaving in the middle of the night, but where was he going? Why couldn't he tell Farlan and Izzy about it? There was some mistrust there and she didn't appreciate it. Izzy would bet her life that Farlan didn't like it either. In the beginning, they were like the binding of a fresh, hardcover book with its pages stapled tight together and the glue holding strong. Now they were breaking apart, pages by page, and she was afraid because what was a book if all its pages were missing?

She should go back. She should really go back. Levi had probably stepped into some shit on their shitty sidewalk and since Farlan follows Levi, he probably stepped into the same shit, the whole time thinking that they don't want the other to get involved. Oh, well, she supposes that Farlan didn't remember the fact that she follows him anywhere he goes, too. Looks like she's gotta go step in some shit on the sidewalk because what are friends for?

Izzy turns around, looks at the innocent bystanders on the sidewalk and marvels at how simple some of their lives might be. But these kids probably had a nice home with a nice mommy and daddy to look after them. They were probably adored by their parents and not called a wicked changeling sent from hell. How pleasant their lives must be.

That doesn't matter too much though, because now that she thinks about it, Izzy doesn't really want a nice household. If that had been the case, she'd never have met Farlan and Levi. Now that, that was a sad life.

She should go back. She will go back.

It starts off as quick steps then they pick up and lengthen into strides until she's fully running, running, running to the only people in the world who've ever taken the time to think she might be something more than a nuisance. Soon the world falls into a blur and she's only focused on what's immediately ahead. Izzy's replaying the image of Farlan running off; which way did he go? Left? Yeah, it had to've been left.

 _ERRRRRRR_

It's the sound of tires screeching against concrete that wakes her up and makes the blur of images form into legitimate objects.

"Isabel Magnolia!" Someone shouts out her name.

Like a dummy, she stops and turns to the black van which is pulled crookedly beside the curb. It's where the voice had come from.

"You lookin' for two dudes?" the man in the passenger seat shouts. "C'm'ere!"

She must be stupid (She must be!) but something compels her to walk towards the van. It's against her better judgement but she must, it feels like. For a moment, as one foot is put in front of the other, she thinks that perhaps she's not herself that day. It does not feel like she's in control. Someone else is making the decisions here.

"Yes?" She finally reaches the van. Its outside is sleek and smooth, not a bit of grime could be found on its surface. Out of the corner of her eyes she can see her own plain face staring back at her. Montone. A blank slate. Levi's taught her well.

The van door opens.

She sighs. "Not this shit again."

* * *

Farlan and Levi followed Kenny through alleyways for several minutes before they finally stopped in front of a wooden, oak door that was only about five feet high and three feet wide, planted right into the side of a tall, brick building. On the outside, the sun has cast the area into shadows, the bricks looks old and worn, and the door's once-shiny finish has peeled away. The door's crooked on its hinges. The place feels old.

Kenny stands there for a moment, his black trench coat swaying at his knees, just staring at the door and taking several shallow breaths. He looks like he's preparing for something but this seems not to be the case when he simply takes his hands and reaches for the door knob, turns it, and walks inside (unless of course opening the door was the event he was preparing for).

"Home sweet home, aye, Levi?" Kenny asks.

Levi gives a displeased grunt. Farlan looks at the interior in curiosity.

The inside of Kenny's home (can this even be considered a home?) looks like it was pulled directly out of the 1950's. From where they stood, only the kitchen was visible. It had a checkered, black and white floor and some absolutely ghastly peach wallpaper that could've been found on Farlan's grandmother's walls. The cupboards were painted a pale teal, complementing the red granite countertops. The kitchen table was the only thing out of place. Despite it looking run-down and old like the rest of the place, it wasn't painted any bright colors and had no shiny chromium. It was plain oak.

The room's decor wasn't the most conspicuous thing, however. Everywhere from the bright red countertops to the rotting, wooden table sat stacks and stacks of … newspapers? He squints at them and confirms that yes, those were indeed stacks of newspapers. If he looked closely enough, he could see that in red pen, certain words were underlined and some headlines were circled. From this far away with so little inspection, he couldn't tell if they were haphazard remarks or if they'd been made with a deliberate reason in mind. Red pen trailed through all the newspapers, tracking words and phrases as if it were a detective.

Kenny leads them through the room, Farlan looking with a seemingly childish interest and glint in his eye while Levi restrains himself from rubbing the dust from the tables and making a particularly messy pile of newspapers straight. They reach another door and this time it's the standard size instead of a hobbit hole. It's shiny and one can only assume it's made of a strong metal. Farlan notices there's a padlock on the handle. He finds it disturbing, as if Kenny were keeping some animal locked within.

Kenny catches him staring. He grins a wicked grin. "Like it? This door is pure steel and the padlock is one of the strongest you can find," he chuckles. The grin falls a bit. "Had to have it installed when someone got a little _too_ close to escaping."

Farlan turns to Levi. He's grimacing and his eyes are unfocused, as if trying to stare into an invisible world he wasn't meant to see, and two fists are balled at his side but not in anger—in restraint. He wonders what Kenny had meant by "escaping" and a malicious feeling starts to churn in his gut. Levi is less surprised, simply upset by the mentioning.

The air starts to feel heavier.

" _Anyways!"_ Kenny calls cheerfully. "Right this way, boys! Also, Farlan we've got to talk because Levi never says anything about his friends and I like to check up on my pride and joy from time to time. You understand, don't you?"

Pride and joy … "Are you Levi's father?"

Kenny throws his head back and laughs. "Haha! Definitely not,"—suddenly serious. "Just a concerned 'family' member."

"He won't tell me our relation either, Farlan, so don't be put out," Levi grunted.

He glanced at him, incredulous, just barely holding in a gasp. Levi trusted this man even though he doesn't even know how they're related? A bit of a stretch considering Levi's character, he thinks.

Kenny is the first one to head down the stairs of the cellar. He grabs something off the wall—a flashlight with a yellow case—and uses it to guide him down the steep stairs. Farlan waited for Levi to approve and head down first before he follows closely behind. The walls were smooth cement and the lone shadow of Kenny bounces along with his feet, the three's footsteps echoing through the silence. It was creepy already but a low groan coming from the bottom of the steps sends a clear shiver down Farlan's spine. Levi's only reaction is to stiffen up. What was Kenny hiding down there?

The groan sounded as if it came from a man—a hurt, desperate, and broken man—without much strength. Farlan swallowed, practically gulping, and glanced at Levi's family member. Just what the hell was this man capable of?

When Kenny's foot touched the basement floor, he veered off quickly to the left and the groans turned into quieted whimpers. Farlan notices how uncharacteristically stiff Levi is, movements performed as if they were instinct-first responses instead of thought out acts—perfunctory in the most robotic manner. The air felt subtly malicious as the two friends turned to their lefts to see a man shirtless, gagged, and tied to a pole. Blood ran down the side of the man's face from a head wound that looked extremely recent. How long … how long had he been tied there?

On the outside, Farlan did his best to copy Levi and to have no reaction, but he couldn't stop the horrified lump forming in his throat. He tried to placate himself by thinking of all the other times he'd seen men and women in worse shape. They were all out in the open, though, and fair game. They weren't trapped like an animal in a four-sided cement cage. To do so felt very … cruel on another level.

Well, whaddya know? He has a conscious after all.

Farlan focused on the dust swimming in the sunlight that shone through a small window.

The next words coming out of Levi and Kenny's mouths were coming fast and full of information he ought to pay attention to; he was having some trouble.

"When did you get him?" Levi asked, like the man was some new pet.

"Three days ago. He came up to me while I was walking along the street and handed it to me like it was nothing. I doubt he's the real deal, probably just a little worker bee who got the short end of the stick."

'It'? When Kenny had first met them back in that alleyway, hadn't he mentioned something about letters?

Levi gave a grunt of agreement. "Has he said anything useful?"

"Not really. Actually, I'm hoping that's what you can help me with."

Levi's jaw stiffened. "Ah."

When would be the right time to speak up and ask questions? Farlan was getting quite confused at this point. Kenny noticed before he could even muster the courage.

"Boy, has Levi told you anything?"

He shook his head no.

"Haha, typical. Tryna play the hero, I bet. Not healthy …" Kenny seemed to get lost in his thoughts for a moment before continuing: "Well, I guess I'll hafta—"

"Someone's been stalking us, Farlan," Levi interjected. "Whoever it is, they've been writing it down and putting their findings in bullshit fancy red letters and giving them to … me."

"Have they threatened anything yet?" he asked, internally congratulating himself on having a level voice.

"All they've said is that we better not cross 'em, but haven't specified anything we're supposed to do. It won't be long before they ask for ransoms. We're in constant danger the longer they're on the loose."

He nodded. "I see. … And you knew about this for how long?"

" … A little longer than a month."

"Really? And how come you never told me or Izzy?" He couldn't stop a little bit of venom seeping into his words. He hoped they scraped across Levi's ears like nails on a chalkboard.

Frustratingly, it seemed to have no impact. "I didn't want you guys to worry. I had people taking care of it."

"You mean him?" Farlan shouted while motioning at Kenny, tempted to add on 'this psycho!' but refraining.

"Yeah, actually." Levi's eyes narrowed.

"You can't keep shit like that from us, Levi! We had a right to know."

Levi opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, a loud clap resounded through the room. Kenny glared at the both of them. "Will you both be quiet? We have answers right in front of us and you think it's a good time to work out your problems? Please turn off your mouths during takeoff, and thank you for choosing shut-the-fuck-up airlines!"

Then he promptly stomped up to the man and ripped the gag out.

"Last time before we kill you. Who gave you the letters?"

 _Kill him?!_

The man breathed heavily and the three of them listened intently as it soon became the only sound in the room.

Shakily, he said, "I don't know anything."

"Wrong answer!" Kenny punched him in the gut. "Try again."

"I-I don't—"

Another punch. "I said: wrong. answer."

Farlan watched as the man struggled for a breath. Something about Kenny had changed. All along, he'd known the man had some intense strength underneath his sarcastic facade, but seeing it in action made him seem ruthless on a different, scarier level. Teeth bared and face almost completely red in anger, he did not look like a man you wanted to piss off.

Farlan's mind raced in the face of the man's pain. What if the person they'd got wasn't lying? What if he really didn't know anything?

"Wait—"

Kenny grabbed the man's straggly, blond hair and forced him to look him in the eye. Their prisoner whined before Kenny said, "For the benefit of our company, I'd appreciate it if you told them what you've been telling me for the last three days!"

Slowly and breathily, he explained himself:

"I was walking to work. My hands were in my pockets and there was nothing in them except a gum wrapper. I passed by you on the sidewalk and—and—and—it becomes blurry. I ended up here with a gag in my mouth. I don't know about any red letters. I wasn't—I couldn't—"

"Kenny?" Levi asked, talking for the first time in minutes.

"What?" the man grunted.

"Do you keep all of your letters?"

"Obviously." He rolled his eyes. "They're all opened except the one I got a few days ago. Haven't bothered looking yet; it's probably the same creepy stuff as always."

"It'd still do us good to look," Levi chastised.

"Well have it then!" Kenny reached into his inner coat pocket and took out a red envelope with an ornate wax seal displaying the letter _S_. He practically threw it at Levi, leaving the other to hastily snatch it out of the air.

Levi unceremoniously ripped it open and pulled out what looked to be fine stationery. As if it'd come out of a storybook, the first letter at the top was beautifully drawn. At least their stalker had class.

Farlan was about to ask what it said before he noticed Levi tensing but in a very unsettling, strange way.

"What's—?"

"Dammit," Levi hissed.

Kenny jerked to face them, letting the man's hair go with his head falling against his collarbone abruptly.

"What's it say?" he spat.

Levi only replied with: "This isn't the guy."

Kenny stood up, quietly muttering, "Goddammit, boy," before snatching the letter from him. "The little—GAH." He seemed frustrated and flustered—he was losing his temper—but he seemed to notice where he was and who he was with before quieting himself down and swallowing any fury he held. His hands absently roamed his face, scratching at his beard.

"What should we do with him?"

"Like I said before, I opt to kill him."

"Have you researched any of his family members? Has he been officially reported missing yet? You don't want the authorities on your ass."

"Haven't seen anything on the news so I'm going to assume that if he was really important to anybody, they would've said something by now."

"How come you kept him this long anyways? You know the dangers of …"

And they kept talking. Talking like Farlan wasn't even there … What was he? A shadow they hadn't noticed? The presence they knew was there but they couldn't quite place their finger on it?

"Excuse me?" he suddenly cut in, interrupting whatever Kenny was going to retort with. "Can I see the letters?"

"Since you asked so politely, no," Kenny laughed.

Levi almost rolled his eyes. "Yes, but you can't see mine now; they're hidden and not in this … house." His tone not-so-subtly implied: _if you can even call this a house._

"Fine, I can show you mine but we'll have some trouble finding it in here."

"It wouldn't be hard if you actually cleaned," Levi muttered, arms crossed.

"Y'know what, kid? We can go looking for it and you can clean up my house all you want. Haha, come on! Y'know you want to!"

Levi grumbled something neither of them could make out, but Farlan knew that yes, in fact, Levi would absolutely love to take some pledge and windex to every surface in the place. It was a completely normal exchange right after talking about killing a man. It certainly was an odd sight to see Kenny chuckling beside a slumped, hairy figure tied to a pole.

"I'll take that as a yes," Kenny concluded, clapping a firm hand on Levi's shoulder. "You can start by reading this, boy." He turned to Farlan and tossed the letter at him.

Silently, he read: _As if I'd let myself be caught so easily._

Now he understood the grim face of Levi, who couldn't tear his eyes away from their prisoner. The man looked so pitiful now, even more so than he'd first appeared if that were even possible. But there was more than simple pity and sadness on Levi's face—there was regret. He didn't do anything really wrong, though. This was Kenny's doing and Farlan hoped Levi knew that. Unless … he'd arranged for someone to be captured with Kenny behind their backs. At this point, nothing seemed too crazy. It was a possibility. So, yes, feel regret for now, because you may well deserve it.

Tortured someone who didn't deserve it. Almost made him sick.

"Alright, kiddies," Kenny sighed. "Get outta here while I take care o' him."

"How exactly are you going to do that?" Farlan boldly asked.

Kenny gave him a look. "I'll make it quick and easy if it makes you feel any better." He reached for a pistol sitting on a nearby storage box.

"He's a real liability. There's no other way," Levi solemnly agreed.

"Wait—"

"I'll allow you some last words." Kenny already had the gun pointed at his head.

"You don't have to do that!"

"Farlan," Levi begins. Why does he sound so chastising? He's beginning to understand that Levi really … really doesn't think much of them. Children who need protection? That aren't old enough to handle the truth? Please, he'll show him. They have to get this false idea out of his head.

Farlan glares at Levi but sees something sad in his eyes, something almost apologetic. It's as if he's saying, 'Just let him do it. It'll be over soon and we can forget.' How many times has Levi just sat by and watched as someone's life is taken away without a second thought? And he thinks Levi gets it now, too. Farlan's upset, almost disgusted, with him. It's written across his face and he hopes it's as clear as day. The air becomes stormy.

"If the man is innocent," he began slowly, "then we should let him live. Doesn't that seem fair?"

Levi gave him a look that gave off the impression that he was the adult talking down to a child. "Not everything can be fair. In case you haven't noticed, that's not how life works."

"But this is different because you have a choice, now. This is not fate at work. You can change this."

Kenny interrupts with a hearty chuckle. "Wow, Farlan, nice explanation! But we still have to kill him. He's a liability."

"But—"

Kenny shoots and Farlan screams. All that's left is a limp body, brain matter, and a stream of blood.

* * *

He's never killed anyone before. Wouldn't dream of it. He's taken baseball bats to backs, knees, and stomachs, but he's never pointed a loaded gun at another human being. What right? he would ask himself. What right did people have to play God and decide who lives and who dies?

The sight was horrendous. It wasn't even that loud. Kenny had a silencer. Instead of an explosion screeching in their ears, it was Farlan's shout of surprise. Happened so fast …

He held his head in his hands and rubbed at his eyes with the palms, hoping the gore he just saw would leave his head. He'd witnessed someone's last moments. Heard someone's last words. What were they again? Oh, a reason he should've been spared. He was innocent. He … was innocent.

They were outside now. Back in an alleyway of a … pizza restaurant, he believes. Kenny explained to them how the owners were involved with the mafia, smuggling heroin from Sicily in cans of tomato sauce. FBI hadn't been on their asses for a few years, he said. They were reliable folk who kept their mouths shut and made a big profit off it.

The encounter left Farlan wondering just how deep he'd fallen in, meeting this man. Perhaps there _was_ a really good reason he was kept separate.

He continued to sit on a metal trash can, willing the last bits of food he had within him to stay down.

A few feet away, Levi and his family member spoke in furtive whispers out of earshot of their third companion. They seemed to be arguing, but about what Farlan couldn't tell. A part of him hoped Levi was chastising Kenny for his actions, but for some reason he highly doubted it.

"C'mon, Farlan, let's go!" Levi abruptly shouted, racing over to him and swiftly grabbing his arm to pull him along towards the end of the alley.

"Let go." Farlan ripped his arm away from Levi's grip. His friend was momentarily surprised at Farlan's tone, but he walked on as if nothing had happened when he continued to keep with him despite Levi, himself, seeming mildly disturbed. It may not have shown on his face but it presented itself in the stiffness of his gait and the slight furrow of his brows.

"Levi, get back here!" Kenny shouted from behind them.

It only took a second for Kenny to catch up to them and knock Levi to the ground, face pressed against cold, wet cement. Farlan wasn't really in shock, just didn't _want_ to do anything. If Kenny started a full-out assault, maybe he'd be inspired to provide some aid, but right now, he was only pinning Levi down with his hands behind his back, like pro-wrestlers except this wasn't fake.

Levi didn't struggle against Kenny's weight. He lay limp not in defeat, but in wait, a fire of rebellion burning behind his eyes and bones just waiting to get at another victim. This was nothing for him. He just had to wait. That's all. The real problem was how dirty his clothes had gotten from even _touching_ the city's ground. Disgusting.

"I said no!" Levi shouted.

"You have no choice in the matter. I'm your only family and you're mine. Why can't we spend a day together?"

"This is the worst fucking time!"

Farlan interrupted, "We've actually got a job tonight so do whatever you want, just not today."

Kenny turned to look at him as he flashed a mischievous grin. "Oh? A job? You didn't mention anything about that to me, _Levi._ Who's the employer?"

"Confidential information," he bit back.

Kenny bent Levi's arm up his back farther, eliciting some winces but not a noise.

"Wrong answer."

"It doesn't matter what the answer is because you're not coming with us!"

"I will!"

"You won't!"

"Yes I fucking will."

"No you really fucking won't."

"Um, is that truck gonna run us over?"

Kenny and Levi looked up to where Farlan was faced: "What?"

A black van was hurling down the alley at a remarkable speed considering the amount of space. There was probably going to be dents and dings all up and down the sides of what would've been a smooth exterior. A bit of a shame if one liked to keep their cars nice. It came to a screeching halt just before running their boss and his family member over.

Farlan's blood ran cold.

In the passenger seat, there was Izzy, bound with a gun pointed at her head. She rolled down the window, a speaker in her ear.

"Sorry, but yes he will."

* * *

 **To the two people who reviewed, thanks and I appreciate the motivation. Hopefully, the next chapter won't take another three months, haha.**


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